


The Rite of The Forgotten

by DemonAngelSakina



Category: Original Work
Genre: And a bit old, Blood, Imprisonment, Non-Graphic Torture, Non-Graphic Violence, Not Suitable For Kids, Starvation, This is kinda messed up ok?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:20:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22928599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonAngelSakina/pseuds/DemonAngelSakina
Summary: "You were born into this...and if you wish to leave, you have to pay with your blood."
Kudos: 4





	The Rite of The Forgotten

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: The following work of fiction contains non-graphic depictions/mentions of starvation, forced imprisonment, nakedness, bloodshed via what could be called torture...but not much that is explicit. If none of this--including the possibility of an original character being driven insane--appeals to you, kindly turn away now.  
> All characters featured are of legal age--youngest is twenty.  
> For all remaining, read on. Thank you.

They are cruel and merciless--none could deny this, even if they wished to try.

They are bloodthirsty murderers--this is as much of an indisputable fact as the rising and setting of the sun and moon.

They are _evil_...and all he desires, even as a child, is to be free of their cursed legacy of blood.

\- - -

The cell is bleak and ice cold from the lack of sunlight; the carved stone walls are uncomfortably damp and already slick from ages-old algae. The silence of the dungeon was almost worse than the void-like darkness--after the first day...he began to doubt if 'freedom' was worth all of this.

He sits on the straw-filled mat--the too thin material barely big enough for a child, much less a young man of twenty. He pulls his long limbs in--his arms curled around his legs and his knees pressed to his chest as he tries to conserve what little heat is left within his body--he almost wishes they had let him wear some kind of clothing for this as the chill weighs down on his bare skin.

His hunger is consuming him--they forbid him food when he was placed here...how long ago had it been? Three days now? Four? _Was the week almost up?!_ He couldn't remember--time felt meaningless...only able to be judged by how the clay bowl of water would be refilled every once in a while. He wonders, if he survives this, will his ribs, or even the rest of his skeleton, be visible.

In his mind, he tried to remember the feeling of the sun on his skin--how colors washed in that warm, sweet light had looked...but it was becoming harder and harder to remember. He barely recalled what he had looked like before as he raised a chilled-to-the-bone, grime-covered hand to brush several oily, stringy locks of dark hair-- _'yes, his hair had been dark',_ he told himself--away from his face.

Cold...hungry...filthy...he wondered if he was going mad.

\- - -

The cloth mask was ripped away and he had to clench his eyes shut against the force that had pulled so harshly at his hair. When he opened his eyes, he had to squint against the light coming from the forge near the center of the room--the light source almost too much to take after so long in darkness.

The new room was massive, from what he could guess--everything beyond the center of the room was a sea of ink...but it felt different than the cell had been. The darkness of the cell weighed on him like a soaked through woolen blanket, making even breathing a challenge at times; here...the darkness, while still heavy, felt more like it would burn him to ash should he be pushed into it. A shudder ran through him as he realized he was longing for the familiarity of the cell.

Strong hands force him onto his knees and press his chest harshly against a waist-high stone column; as the hands hold him in place, another pair untied his hands from behind his back and jerked them forward--binding them around the thick column with heavy iron shackles. The heat radiating from the forge and the column--even from the shackles themselves--is both blissful and agonizing after being locked in the cold for so long.

The first cut comes close to the edge of the joint of his left shoulder; each subsequent cut goes deeper than the first as the first letter is carved into his flesh. He wants to scream, but his throat has gone dry in the darkness, as if he'd been force-fed a mouthful of ash, and he could only clench his hands into fists and grit his teeth as the work begins on the second letter.

By the fourth letter, his vision has gone to black at the edges and his fingernails are biting into his palms--blood already beginning to drip from the fresh wounds. His lungs feel far too constricted--trying to breathe hurts too much. His heart is pounding rapid-fire within his chest--the sound echoing far too loudly in his ears.

By the eighth letter--maybe the ninth, he's almost certain that he's lost count--he feels himself beginning to, _finally_ , drift away from this agony...only for a sharp pain in his side to wrench him fully back into the world and the next letter is carved. It becomes a pattern...he begins to lose consciousness from the pain and bloodloss, and that pain--a taser he realizes through the haze of sensory overload--forces him back so that the cutting continues.

When the blade is finally removed for good, he almost makes the mistake of letting out a breath of relief...but the action is cut off before it begins by the heated metal pressing over the first letter--the smell of burning flesh joining the coppery, acrid stench of blood and almost forcing a scream from his parched throat.

It doesn't stop, even when he starts to lose consciousness--the taser is applied even as the burning... _the branding_...continues.

The shackles are finally removed and he's forced to his feet--his back alternately burning or too numb to feel; on some level, he feels the blood sticking to his shoulders and covering down the length of his back and sides...he vaguely feels the blood, both dried and drying, on his legs. His wrists are bloody and bruised from the shackles--his fingernails and abused palms stained dark with drying blood; his side aches beneath the layer of blood--the small burns, from the taser, littering the flesh like a disease.

 _'I survived'_ is all that flickers through his mind.

He takes two steps before the blow comes to the back of his head and the darkness swallows him.

\- - -

Light burns his vision and he can only bring his arms up in attempt to shield himself from it...trying in vain to shift his body in a way that would help him escape from the unfamiliar brightness. He forced himself onto his onto his stomach before weakly forcing himself onto his knees and elbows--his forehead pressed against...grass? Shakily he lifted his head and stared down beneath him--his eyes squinting still--as his brain slowly caught up with him. Slowly a blood and dirt-stained hand pressed against the ground and he began running his fingers through the soft-- _'green!'_ his mind screamed--grass much like a child. 

His lifted his head to look around him--tall shoots of grass swayed around him like waves; the warmth on his bloodstained and grime-coated body finally caught his attention and he looked up--craning his neck as far as he could ...the sun shining warm and perfect in the blue sky. He tried to tilt his head back farther, but only ended up falling over onto his back in the grass--immediately he curled over onto his side with a series of shuddering gasps from the surge of pain...the fresh wounds on his back reminding him of everything that had happened to him...reminding him of what he was now.

Slowly, his agonized gasps became shorter and melted into quiet, raspy laughter; his arms clasped around his chest as his knees drew up closer to his bare body...and as long held back tears flowed from his eyes, he laughed.

He had survived...he was free.

\- - -  
\- - -

A man of twenty-nine looked at himself in the bathroom mirror--ice blue eyes narrowed into an expression that could make even the most hardened of psychopaths and fanatics tell all of their secrets and betray all of their beliefs for fear of what he could and would do to them should they refuse. He finished drying off his face with a towel--setting the freshly cleaned and folded straight razor down on the sink's edge.

He raised his strong hands--naturally tanned in a way that drew as much envy from others as the chiseled muscles of his body--and pulled back the length of his dark, rich brown hair, binding the shoulder-length locks into a low ponytail at the base of his skull with a leather cord.

He looked down at himself a moment--a few new bruises and scratches from the last job, but nothing too serious that he needed to bother anyone over. Old scars littered his flesh--painting a macabre portrait on tanned flesh. A frown formed on his face as he brushed his fingertips over the series of circular burn scars along his left side, trailing from the middle of his ribs to his hipbone--even now, he imagined that he could still feel the jolts of pain through those marks...as if the long gone electrical charges had been imprinted into his very flesh.

With a shake of head he applied an aftershave lotion to his skin and turned away...only stopping at the door long enough to cast a look at the reflection in the mirror. The words may be reversed...the wounds had long since healed into scar tissue that either ached relentlessly or was too numb to feel even a friendly touch...but they, and the message conveyed, were still clear.

He was thrown away by his choice--he didn't want them and they no longer wanted him...

He was dead by his choice and without a family name to call his own...

He was a ghost that wasn't even worth a memory...

 _"IL DIMENTICATO"_..."The Forgotten".

**Author's Note:**

> Where this came from...I don't even know.
> 
> I'm not saying--for now--who the main character is, but I will say that I'm considering writing more stories with him involved...though, hopefully something slightly less dark than this.
> 
> The translated part at the end comes from google translate-Italian. If it's wrong, sorry in advance. My Italian is extremely limited. Italian speakers, feel free to correct it in the comments if it is wrong.


End file.
